


One Hundred Sixty Days of Salt

by apocalypticmailman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fallout, Canon-Typical Violence, Cars, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Guns, Logistics, Motorcycles, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Running, scavenging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypticmailman/pseuds/apocalypticmailman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War Rig Family flees across the Great Salt Flats. Max comes with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Road Warriors Think

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my Mad Max/Fallout headcanon (http://apocalyptic-mailman.tumblr.com/post/123169542485/headcanon-mmfr-and-fallout-are-the-same-world) and runs with that idea. I also wanted to explore an AU that doesn't get much love here--in which they don't turn around and take the Citadel. Thus, we pick up at the beginning of the film's final act.
> 
> This is my first-ever fic, and it's been years since I've written like this, so feedback would be much appreciated. Enjoy!

Max

 “Don’t get attached” had always been his mantra. He had avoided getting too attached to anything his entire life. Attachment got you stupid, and stupid got you killed. He had been attached to someone, once, before she went under the wheels, all those years ago, and she had haunted him ever since.

And yet here he was. Riding a motorcycle towards a hundred and sixty days’ worth of salt, with people he had met a few hours ago and—grudgingly—he had started to care about. He was almost starting to hope.

He looked to his left; Furiosa rode alongside him, downshifting to save her engine some strain over the long haul. She shot him a glance. He turned away, still unused to caring. And yet here he was.

“We drive as long as we need to, to lose the war party,” she shouted over the roar of the motorcycle. “That army can’t survive long without its supply chain. Maybe a week, and they’ll be off our backs.” Her face was stony, but Max could feel the frustration boiling just beneath the surface. She didn’t want to run. She was a warrior. She wanted to turn and fight, to see Immortan Joe’s corpse splayed out on her hood, to return victorious to the Citadel and liberate its people. All Max could think was that she was going to have to unlearn that if she wanted to survive. Vendettas didn’t pay, out here.

They had enough water and guzzoline to ride for a hundred and sixty days, but all they would find a hundred and sixty days down the road was salt. Max knew that; he’d been out as far as he could possibly go, and still the salt went on. And yet here he was, riding with these people he was afraid to care about.

  

Nux

The road stretched eternal in front of him, smooth and empty. The Chryslus bike roared under him; even though it was just a little V4 number, the engine was surprisingly zippy. This machine wanted to drive. He could sense the soul of this engine; young and wiry and powerful for its size, this motorcycle fit him. Eventually its hum settled in with his heartbeat, pistons and ventricles moving in sequence, half-life and machine as one. Somehow it felt even better than a V8.

Capable tightened her arms around his waist. His whole body was cold from the slipstream, but his waist was warm; he could feel her pressing against him, her hair—so red and so shine, more color than he had ever seen—cascading over his shoulders. Glory be, he was so lucky that she chose him. And out here, on the Fury Road, with Capable straddling his bike… So chrome. He grinned. _Oh, what a lovely day,_ indeed.

She was his everything now. She had taken the sun in her heart and held out a little piece of it, burning, burning bright, burning shiny and chrome. He was going to protect her. With his life, without hesitation. He gunned the throttle, the rush of guzzoline filling him as it filled the engines, and she held a little tighter as he surged ahead in their little pack.

Blood Bag was up ahead with the Imperator. They were discussing something, Nux couldn’t hear what. Doing war, probably. Furiosa shouted something to Blood Bag, and he gave a little nod in return, and Nux supposed it was alright. Nux liked his Blood Bag, for all they’d been through, and Capable was teaching him to recognize little things about him and about other people. Like how Blood Bag was too serene right now. Blank, almost, it clicked.

It dawned on Nux that Blood Bag had been like this most of his life. Running, not fighting. He was reverting, almost, to the feral state he was found in, retreating to that place inside him that had kept him alive all these years. Nux didn’t like to think about that.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to the Imperator. She wanted to fight, not run, he could feel that. A part of him, a really big part, wanted to die historic instead of running; he wondered if Furiosa wanted that too. He understood if she did. Furiosa was an Imperator. She was a warrior. She fought and she bled and she killed and she died historic and she went to Valhalla. She didn’t run. He didn’t either.

But if Capable ran, Nux ran with her.

 

 Furiosa

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to turn around and fucking kill him, even if it meant her death. This wasn’t redemption. Only the stench of Joe’s blood would bring her any kind of redemption, any kind of closure. She hated running.

It was only now, after they had abandoned the War Rig, that she realized this was running, plain and simple. This wasn’t fighting anymore, it was just running, and she didn’t like it. Fleeing instead of fighting. She took some solace in the fact that they would live, all of them, a family almost. But at what cost? Joe would live too. Joe would live, and he’d be a little warlord in a little corner of a big world, and he’d spread like one of Nux’s cancers until he choked the life out of this Wasteland. Joe would live and Joe would go unpunished. Nothing he did would be avenged. Nothing she did would be redeemed.

Furiosa found it a bit funny that redemption came the same way as sin—through fire and blood. It made sense. It was all this world was.

But she didn’t focus on that rage. She stamped it down and bottled it up. It wouldn’t help any of them survive, it would just get them killed, to turn around and go on a suicide mission to go open a can of whoop-ass on the Immortan. They could do without her, but she knew that the Fool would be along for the ride with her, and some of the Vuvalini would undoubtedly want to come too, and the Wives would want their day to rip Joe to shreds, and they’d all get fucking dead. Historically.


	2. In Which Camps are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family stops for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your positive feedback; my heart jumps into my throat every time I check back. More action and a little less thinking, this time. I'm planning on updating more or less daily, so stay tuned!

Furiosa

The sun was just below the western horizon when Furiosa eased off the throttle, holding up a hand to call a stop. They were in a little depression in the salt flats, and this was as good a place as any to camp for the night. She rose from the motorcycle’s belly, stretching tired muscles and an aching spine. The rest of her family followed suit, stiff from a day’s ride.

“What about Joe?” the Fool asked her.

She turned. “What about him?”

He pointed westwards. “You think he’s stopped?”

“Everybody stops at sundown. Including Immortan Joe. I’ve led enough of his war parties; the War Boys need to rest and the engines need to cool.” As if to underscore her point, the Doof Warrior quieted down behind them, trailing off into a few ending chords before settling. He didn’t pick back up.

The family made their camp in the wind crater, hoisting blankets over pairs of motorbikes to make little forts. These makeshift shelters could cover anywhere from two to four riders. Cheedo and the Dag threw a tarpaulin over their little sled, made a cute little nest for the two of them. Capable and Nux laid out under the stars. Valkyrie lit a cook fire. And the Fool sat out a few meters from everyone else, methodically cleaning his guns and running maintenance on his bike. Furiosa approached him and sat down.

She didn’t talk. She didn’t need to. They could just sit in companionable silence and they didn’t need to share a word because nothing needed to be said. She got the feeling that Fool wasn’t comfortable with people; he spent a lot of his time alone. His place was out on the fringes, surviving on his own. But he seemed comfortable with her—at least, more than with most. She unwrapped her scarf from her neck and laid it down in the dust next to his.

She took out her handgun, popped the magazine and the chamber, and removed the slide, setting it down on the scarf. Next came the barrel, sliding out smoothly. Then the bolt and trigger assembly. Then the grip. All laid out on her scarf, neatly field-stripped. Furiosa took a part in her hands and slowly, sleepily began to clean it with a rag.

They sat together, cleaning their guns. The Imperator reassembled hers and put it back in its boot holster, and took out a different project. This one was complicated, a mess of wires and metal and a fist-sized wad of putty. The Fool stared at it as he realized what it was, before looking up at her.

“Think that’ll do it?”

Furiosa gave him a look. Short breath, then, “Shaped charge. I put it under his seat, make a little cone with the case, and the blast is directed right along his spine.” She mimed an explosion with her hands.

Fool exhaled heavily, then snapped his shotgun closed. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

Nux

The two of them sat next to the campfire, his arms wrapped around her body, her leaning back into him, her head on his neck. Capable’s hair still smelled of flowers, instead of engine grease and sweat; it amazed him how resilient she was to the Wasteland. Nux rocked her back and forth slightly, closing his eyes and just breathing her in. He leaned into his bike, the still-warm engine on his back, siphoning into himself to stay warm.

She looked up at him. “You think there’s anything out this way, but salt?” she asked.

Nux thought for a minute. “I dunno. Maybe. Better than turning around, I guess. Immortan’s not that way.”

“You think there’s life out here, somewhere?” she asked.

“What, like more tree-things?”

“Yeah, like more trees. Trees and birds and animals. Forests.” At Nux’s questioning look—“Big collections of trees. Just trees as far as you could see. And little animals living there. Birds and bears and deer.”

Nux had never heard of any of this. “How d’you know so much, Capable?”

“I read books about them. Back at the Citadel.” Nux was quiet; half-lives never learned to read.

Nux looked up at the night sky. “You read about them?” he said, motioning up at the heavens.

“A little, yeah. About how the stars made patterns and if you connect the dots, they make shapes. People used to tell stories about them. Constellations, they were called.”

Nux smiled and shifted around eagerly. “Yeah, we had those too! Boys used to tell us about ‘em when we was Pups. Taught us our stars. That one,” he said, pointing to a little cluster, “was the V8. See…” He outlined the engine block, pistons angling off the drive shaft. Capable lit up when she saw it. “And that…There’s the Gates of Valhalla.” Another cluster, this time in the shape of a door. “There was a bunch of them, I don’t remember all of them. But every War Boy remembers the Gates, because the top of the Gates is North.”

Capable pointed to the top of the Gates. “Yeah, that’s the North Star. Polaris. That direction is always North. We learned the Big Dipper”—she outlines the spoon, like the cooks used—“and these two stars point to the North Star. That’s the way they did it before the Great War.”

Nux had never known that there were constellations in the Before Times. He thought they’d all been burned away too.

 

 Toast the Knowing

 One of the stars blinked its way across the night sky. Valkyrie pointed it out to her, touching her arm and pointing; Toast looked up from the rifle clip she was loading to look.

“That satellite again,” Toast muttered. “Is it gonna do that every night?”

“Probably,” Val replied. “I can’t remember a night I didn’t see that star. Like clockwork.”

Toast leaned back. “You ever try to pick anything up from them? See if anyone’s broadcasting?”

“We never had the equipment. You’d need a receiver dish and all kinds of apparatus. Besides, what would that do for us?”

Toast shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe someone’s out there, someone with the equipment to send messages. Leads one to think they’ve got other basics covered too.”

Val looked at Toast. “You ever spend any time in the Wasteland?” she asked pointedly.

Toast clicked another round into the clip. “Years ago. I was just a girl.”

The Valkyrie got her meaning.

With one more round loaded, Toast was finished with the clip. She leaned over to load it into her rifle, the semiautomatic. It was a gift from Furiosa. Since she knew how to handle one, she’d said.

Val wagged her finger at Toast’s gun. “Ever fire that thing?”

Toast cycled the bolt, pulling back and releasing with a satisfying _chunk_. “Not yet.”

Valkyrie stood up, taking her own repeater. “Want to learn?”

In response, Toast rose.

She took an empty can of pork and beans, an old bottle of soda, and a stone from near the fire, walked a few paces out from their camp. “Come,” she said. Val laid out the three targets about fifty paces from where they stood.

“Alright. Watch.” Val brought her repeater up to her shoulder, leveled the rock in her sights, and squeezed the trigger. Toast raised her own rifle. “Okay, stop. Now. First thing. Grip.” Val adjusted the placement of Toast’s hands. “Second, sight picture. Center the sights”—Val pointed—“and get your target in the center. Third, breathe. Even. Smooth. Exhale right as you take your shot. Fourth, squeeze…”

A cloud of dust erupted about half a meter in front of the rock. Toast exhaled, resighted, and squeezed again.


	3. In Which Furiosa Plants Her Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't stand the feeling of running any longer, and decides to do something about it.

Max

 He clicked his shotgun closed. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Furiosa pocketed the bomb. Stood up. The shotgun went into his holster; they threw the blanket off their bikes.

The Dag approached them. “Off into a sunset of your own making. A little ball of sun.”

Max engaged his ignition. The entire family had gathered round. “If we’re not back by morning, keep going,” Furiosa said. “We’ll catch up.” She revved her bike and rode westward.

Max nodded once, then turned to follow.

The inky flats stretched out for what seemed like forever. Max could see the lights of the war party off on the horizon. That was always eerie. Seeing your target so far off, so close and yet unreachable.

“Turn off your light,” he shouted to her. She nodded. Now the night black was complete.

After nearly two hours they were finally close to the camp. Furiosa braked, turning off her bike. The dust billowed up around her front wheels. Max followed suit, ears ringing in the sudden silence, only broken by the shouting of War Boys in the distance and the sounds of welding torches running. For a night camp, this was pretty damn loud. It was a miracle that any of the War Boys slept.

Furiosa dropped to a crouch and pointed to the camp. “Stay low and don’t be seen. They’ll have outriders there…” She pointed. “And there. We want to maintain the element of surprise. Joe’s car will be in the front. Always is.” She took the bomb out of her satchel to demonstrate. “We plant this in the chassis, under the driver’s seat, pointing up. Hook the detonator to the axle. He starts driving…Pew.” She made a little cough, miming an explosion.

They crouch-walked the rest of the way to Joe’s camp, skirting the outriders, a solid hour on foot. Furiosa dropped to her belly as they approached the Gigahorse. Max followed. He had something in his bag. He pulled out a dusty blanket and tossed it to Furiosa.

“Camouflage,” he whispered. He drew one over himself as well. They would need it.

Joe’s car was on the east side of camp. Max could see the scouts, leaning on car hoods, cradling submachine guns. Close enough to smell. Oil and sweat and cordite. Max wondered if they could smell him, all road dust and antiseptic. Their focus was on the horizon; if they dropped their gaze, Max and Furiosa would have been seen. One of them did.

The scout, a short War Boy, turned his head to call to a friend. Something about shredding Furiosa, taking one of the Wives if Joe granted his wish. Max heard him. He wanted the white-haired one. His friend replied from right over their heads. Maybe a meter away. Telling the scout to keep his eyes on the horizon. The friend walked towards Max as the scout turned; tripped over him. His heart jumped into his throat.

Furiosa went wide-eyed. She sprang up, knife in her hand. Like she’d been shot out of a catapult. Tackled the War Boy to the ground. He flipped over, started to shout. She clamped a hand over his mouth. Snatched it away, the bite drawing blood. Backhanded him across the cheek. Max drew his pistol, pressed it to the War Boy’s head. Furiosa smashed it from his hand with her mech arm, brought her knife into the Boy’s temple. Clean.

Max covered the body with his blanket, for camouflage. They would need to work fast now. That scout might call back to his late friend. He could hear the War Boys. Shouting and revving engines and fighting. Furiosa rose into a crouch near the wheel. One of the Boys walked not a meter past; he froze. She worked her way up into the chassis, around the engine block, the battery, the coolant pump. Got to work taping the bomb in, nose-up, and tying the detonator to the axle. Looped twine over a gear, so it would catch. Smart.

Now all that was left was their escape. Moving barely an inch at a time. Slipping past the scouts again. It was the longest crawl of Max’s life. Once they had made it to the bikes, his heart finally fell back out of his throat, the thrum of the engine slowing his heartbeat and chilling his adrenaline rush. It was therapeutic.

The moon was high in the sky when they returned. The Keeper of the Seeds approached them first. “It’s done?” she asked solemnly.

“We’ll know for sure tomorrow morning,” Furiosa replied.

Max shifts his weight to his good leg. “Looked done to me.”

Furiosa looks over at him. He nods. It’s all the confirmation she needs; if he thinks it’s done, it’s probably done. Max knew his way around explosives by now.

“I’ll take watch,” he says, hand on his shotgun.

The youngest Vuvalini, the one they called the Valkyrie, put her hand on his shoulder before he could walk off. “We’ve got the watch worked out. You’re not on the list. Get some rest.”

  

Furiosa

 With the bomb planted under Joe’s car, all that was left to do was wait to hear the blast tomorrow morning. Should be pretty audible; that wasn’t your everyday C-4 she’d made that bomb with. She'd used Semtex, much more powerful. That fist-sized wad of plastic explosive would kill Joe and destroy about half of the Gigahorse.

Improvised demolitions was hungry work, and the pork and beans Cheedo cooked up for dinner were still good; just needed five minutes over the camping stove again to heat up and it was good as canned. Furiosa had had these before. The mall the War Boys all got their clothes from wasn’t the only un-scavenged ruin the Immortan had found; he’d also found a Super-Duper Mart and cleaned it out. Gave the canned stuff to his Wives and his Imperators on special occasions.

She brought a plate back to the little shelter she and the Fool had made out of their bikes and a few blankets. “Thought you’d want to eat,” she said, placing it on the ground. The Fool grunted his thanks. Furiosa pulled out a compass and a very old map she had stolen from Joe’s personal library and began to study it.

Fool looked down at the map. “Old maps. No good anymore.”

She shushed him. “Trying to figure where we are. And maybe where we could go.”

He pointed out over the flats. “We’ve got a hundred and fifty-nine days of supplies. A hundred and fifty-nine days that way…nothing but salt.”

Furiosa looked at him. “Have you been that way?” He was silent. “The Plains of Silence can’t go on forever. Eventually there has to be something.”

Fool nodded. “Salt.”

She sighed. As she leaned back, Furiosa could feel her .32 revolver, hidden in her boot, digging into her ankle. She took it out and laid it in the dirt next to her. Fool gave her a look. As if in response, he pulled a ten-millimeter out of his jacket and laid it down. An N99, United States Army issue. The air in their tent seemed heavy; Fool was disarming himself. She didn't breathe. Just felt the moment.

“I found something. For the girls. They might find it useful.” Fool pulled out a weather-beaten sheaf of pages. Furiosa looked closer; the faded title read “The Wasteland Survival Guide”. She leafed through the books. There was some good stuff in here, although the notes on wasteland fauna seemed a bit addled. Something about “Mirelurks” and “Mole Rats”. The author, this Moira Brown, must’ve been more than a little off-kilter when she wrote it.

“Stuff about radiation. Explosives. Scavenging. Basic first aid. Things they ought to know,” he rasped. He handed her an old holotape. “If you can find anything to use this…it’s the old Library of Congress.”

Furiosa closed the tome and accepted the holotape. “Thank you. This stuff is gonna be pretty useful; I don’t think anyone taught these women how to survive out here.”

The Fool grunted his appreciation and laid his head back in the dust. Furiosa followed suit, tucking the guide into her saddlebag.

  

The next morning, the blast was what woke them.


	4. The Road War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remnants of Joe's army catches up, hell-bent on revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a biggie. High-octane kamicrazy action we're all thirsty for. So strap in and enjoy, guys.

Capable

They had been riding for five days with the remnants of Joe’s war party still in pursuit. Rictus Erectus still led a Rig and, by Furiosa’s guess, about two dozen other cars on a revenge mission; the People Eater had long since taken his Boys and the Bullet Farmer’s home. Nevertheless, two dozen cars filled with War Boys hell-bent on avenging their god were still more than a match for their little tribe, so they rode on.

She and Nux had switched seats that morning. Now, it was her turn to feel the power of his—their—motorbike. She could see why he loved this so much. Slipstream whipping her hair back, the bike roaring every time she opened the throttle. Especially for a half-life, for someone with the life being choked out of them by radiation, this must feel incredible. This bike resembled Nux in so many ways. Small and powerful and zippy and ultimately so innocent. A little kid in a big body.

“Downshift,” he shouted over the wind. “Don’t stay in high gear, it’ll waste guzzoline.” He wrapped his hand around hers—clammy despite the desert heat—and guided her thumb over the gearshift. He still rode this motorcycle as much as she did; she resolved to take lessons with him as soon as would be convenient.

Capable looked ahead. Furiosa and the other road warrior, the one Furiosa called Fool (but Capable knew that would be mean), were riding alongside each other. Like a mother and father leading their family into the desert. Capable couldn’t see Furiosa’s face, but she knew something was wrong with their savior. She could feel it.

The Vuvalini were the same way. Tense. She felt Nux turn around, saw his arm reach under her hip to the gun in its holster, and suddenly she felt it too. The need to drive, not for its own sake, not to enjoy the thrum of the engine and the feeling of her lover’s arms, but to escape, to survive, to not go back. She gunned the engine.

Capable pulled up alongside Toast and Val as Nux turned around in his seat, loading the little submachine gun. “They gaining?” she asked them.

“Looks like it,” Toast said. She pointed; Capable turned. Behind them, Rictus’ army was closing the gap between them. Their cars were stripped down to almost nothing, prioritizing speed over protection to catch up. She saw his face. A mad grin fueled by hate. He pointed right at her and screamed something inaudible. Capable turned forward and opened the throttle as wide as it would go.

Behind her, she heard the crackle of automatic gunfire. Nux, firing their ten-millimeter. A four-round burst, aimed right at Rictus’ hateful face; then, the not-echo of the bullets pattering off Rictus’ windshield. The Doof Warrior shredded out a few chords in response, starting up for war.

Furiosa shouted something, waving her flesh arm in circles. The Vuvalini riders split off. Val and Toast tacked hard to her left; Keeper to the right. The Fool (she didn’t know what else to call him) slowed, fell behind her, towards Cheedo and Dag in their little sled. Protecting them.

Nux clapped her right shoulder. She mirrored his excitement over all the nerves, adrenaline flooding her veins. “Let’s get historic!” he shouted. She slapped his thigh in acknowledgement.

The war party was only a few dozen meters behind them now. Nux stood up in his seat, took shots, bursts, emptied the magazine and reloaded. To her left, Toast was taking careful shots at the drivers and tires. On her right, Keeper pinned the handlebars, stood up from her bike, and landed a bullet in a War Boy’s neck.

A War Boy, one eye glossed over from the scar running through it, rode up alongside her, brandishing a spear. Nux turned, but she had already put a .32 bullet in the Boy’s arm. She fired again, again, three times, the third shot landing in his chest. The War Boy fell back, his bike spinning away.

“Get me closer!” Nux shouted. He was crouched, one foot on the seat, the other on the footrest on the rear axle. Capable obliged him; she braked, swerved, and suddenly they were alongside a V8 Interceptor. Maybe the last one.

“THAT’S MY CAR!” the Fool shouted, pointing. The War Boy driving it, with the rat’s mouth scars, hissed back at him. Then he saw Nux about to jump on his car.

“Nux! You traitored him! You traitored the Immortan!” he shouted, swerving the car into their motorbike. Capable dodged to the side, her knuckles turning white on the handlebars. Her first time driving, and they run into a war party.

“He traitored us, Slit! He traitored every fanging one of us!” The bike’s weight shifted and suddenly lightened, as Nux threw himself onto the Interceptor. Capable maintained speed and saw Nux draw a huge knife, serrated on the back, with a handguard over the grip. Trench knife. Miss Giddy had shown them one.

Her heart jumped into her throat as Slit cut the wheel, trying to handbrake-turn the Interceptor and throw Nux off. Nux nearly lost his balance and Slit nearly made the turn; they ended up diagonal, across the pack, with Nux grabbing into a window. She gunned her engine, crossing to maintain pace. The Fool pulled up alongside her.

“The War Boy is his. The car is mine. Here, stay safe,” he said. He always spoke in such short sentences, like he was remembering how to. The Fool handed her his pistol; for a half-second, she worried that he would be unarmed, before she remembered the six other weapons strapped to his person. He’d be okay. He peeled off, doggedly chasing his car.

Capable cut back towards Cheedo and Dag, pulled along by the old Vuvalini with the shotgun. She remembered the old Vuvalini’s name; Shotshell. Fit her. Cheedo was cradling the shotgun in her arms, sighting down at a War Boy driving a Chryslus Highwayman. The gun bucked in her hands, a deer slug punching through the windshield, exploding the War Boy’s chest. Cheedo missed her second shot; Capable could feel the air disturbed by the slug as it whizzed past her. She turned and saw what Cheedo was aiming at, and realized her—the Fool’s—ten-millimeter wasn’t going to suffice.

 

Nux

“Fang it, Slit, you can’t fucking drive!” Nux shouted. Slit was always the lancer. He was a mediocre driver, and Nux was a mediocre lancer, so climbing around on the car while Slit drove was gonna end historic.

“I promoted myself!” he shouted back. He tried swerving again. Least this time he wasn’t stupid enough to handbrake.

“No, not like that! Like your driving is mediocre!” Nux emptied half the magazine into the roof of the car. Missed.

“Who’re you calling mediocre?! You traitored the Immortan!” Three shots erupted up from inside the car. Big bullets. .44 Magnum.

They were coming up on Furiosa now. Slit thought he was gonna die historic, take the Imperator with him. Nux could see Bloodbag coming up alongside them, shouting about his car. He took the opportunity, swung into the backseat. He stabbed the trench knife at the headrest; Slit ducked forward and stabbed back, blind-like. Nux squirmed out the lancer-side rear door.

Nux swung around and leapt into the car, knife out for Slit’s neck. He dodged again, slammed his shoulder into Nux’s arm. Slit’s dagger came out from the side, in towards his gut. Nux caught Slit’s arm; Slit had always been the weaker one of them. Nux leaned forward, pushing the knife towards Slit’s gut. Slit gunned the engine, hoping to run the Imperator down.

“Valhalla is a fanging lie, Slit! Immortan was a lie! Full of air, no guzzoline in sight. We’re not his things, fang it!” He shifted forward and put all of his weight behind the knife, sliding it between Slit’s ribs. The strength went from him like a slipped belt; Nux brought his arm around Slit’s head, held him as he stabbed again.

Slit was getting historic. “Witness me,” he breathed.

“Witness,” Nux whispered. He wasted water.

 

Max

That was his car. That War Boy with the Glasgow smile was driving his car. His fucking car. First they take his blood. Then his jacket. Now his car. What else could they take?

He watched Nux kill the War Boy. Slit, his name was. Nux was driving his car now. Better, but not good. It was his car and he wanted it back. Max rode up alongside the Interceptor.

“My car!” he shouted. Pointed, to emphasize.

“Alright!” Nux replied. He opened the driver’s side door, pinned the wheel. They jumped, landed, Nux on the motorbike and Max in his car. Pulled the door closed, released the wheel. It was his again.

The War Boys had done a number, but it was still his. Unmistakably. They couldn’t erase the smells from this car. The sweat and blood and gunpowder. His smell, his wife’s, the oiled leather and fresh paint. It would always be his. He gave it some gas, found it adequate. Checked the old holsters—still there. No reason to move them. Just missing the guns.

It felt like home.

 

Cheedo the Fragile

When Rictus pulled up behind Capable, Cheedo knew the ten-millimeter wasn’t going to cut it. She took her shot and missed—always missed, why did she have to miss?—and her heart fell. She fumbled the break-action, scrambled to load another pair of shells into the Widowmaker.

He was right behind them now, that familiar grin, so like when he took her. His dirty hand outstretched, pointed right at her. She knew what he meant. She was his. His toy, his plaything.

Cheedo stood up in the sled. “We are not things.” Snapped the shotgun closed. “We are not things!” She gave him both barrels. Spiderwebs appeared in his windshield, but still the new Immortan drove on. Not a scratch on him.

By now he was riding right on Capable; the redhead dodged out of the way, fell back towards her War Boy lover. The Dag reached up and handed her a pistol. She pointed at Rictus, her meaning clear.

The War Rig approached their sled. A polecat leaned down; Cheedo leapt up and grabbed the welcoming, outstretched hand, returning to Rictus, her first and only love. The polecat deposited her in the cab, sandwiched between two War Boys, behind Rictus. She breathed heavily, her head light; she was back.

“Cheedo the Fragile! Welcome home,” he said. Leered at her.

Cheedo drew the pistol from where she had concealed it in her wraps. Jabbed the War Boy on her right in the eye, shot the left one twice in the throat and head. She leveled the .45 at Rictus’ head. She savored the moment when his sickening grin turned to dread.

“Fragile no longer,” she said. She pulled the trigger.

As she sat down in the driver’s seat, she could barely see through Rictus’ blood and the cracked windshield. She pulled the horn twice, just like Furiosa.

 

Furiosa

She heard the rig’s horn over her gunshots. Furiosa turned and looked; the windshield was a solid smear of red, and she knew it was Rictus’. She raised a fist in acknowledgement before turning to plug another War Boy, driving an explosives-loaded Corvega. The fireball was spectacular.

The revenge party was down to less than ten vehicles, including the half-captured war rig. She’d emptied three magazines from her Chinese pistol, another from her assault rifle, two shotgun rounds from the revolver. She had no idea where the rest of her tribe stood on ammunition and that worried her.

Furiosa braked. Time to take care of the rig. As she fell back, she saw Cheedo leap down into the sled, caught two-handed by the Dag. She looked shaken up. Furiosa shook her head, got back to the moment and out of her worrying.

There were about a dozen War Boys still on the now-driverless rig. Furiosa had four thundersticks attached to her bike; while she would have preferred a lancer, she would make do. The first one landed short, bouncing off the rig’s front wheel. Three landed around her bike in response; the Boys were flinging them from the cab roof. She paused, ended two of them with neat pistol shots to center mass before the third backed off. She drew her second thunderstick.

This one hit the armored engine block. Wouldn’t do much but help her get range. The sound of shouting drew closer from behind her; she turned.

“Witness meeee!” A War Boy ran up the cab, thundersticks in hand, and threw himself off the rig. She took no chances; he caught two shells full of 4/0 buckshot to the chest and landed behind her in a fireball. Furiosa threw her third spear, but her arm was jarred by the recoil; the thunderstick went under the back wheel of the tractor.

Last one. She couldn’t afford to miss. Furiosa held it up on her shoulder. Felt the weight, saw how it would arc. Picked her target. Aimed…

The spear hit its mark. The left front wheel went up in flames and rubber scraps. She could see the rig starting to list, one corner slowing faster than the others, the support gone. It was coming down, one side listing down and slowing, the trailer swinging around. This rig was about to jackknife.

She gunned the bike, desperate to stay ahead of the rig as it fell. She could see it swipe a few more War Boys on the way down, further thinning their ranks. Down to the last three cars now, all desperately swerving.

A hand leaned out of one of the cars, holding a ten-millimeter pistol. N99, United States Army issue. The gun barked; another lancer fell off one of the cars, dropping his thunderstick under the wheels. The Fool turned and augured the stolen car towards the last remaining War Boys. Slammed the front end, pumping lead into the cabin. Valkyrie was ahead with him, firing shot after shot into the reinforced glass, relentless.

Finally it was done. As the car rolled, Furiosa could make out the remains of the occupants, now just red splatters and white chalk inside the passenger compartment. For a flash, she thought she saw one of the Imperators roll with it, that stupid fork mask glinting in the sun. And then he was gone, the car going down in the dust as her Vuvalini cheered.

Furiosa looked around. “Looks like we’re clear!” she shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking through that 2,400-word chapter, guys! I really didn't want to cut this down any; couldn't figure where to split it if I was gonna do this in two parts. The next few chapters are probably gonna be a lot slower to come; I haven't written anything in advance now, we're on uncharted roads.
> 
> You have all been so amazing. The feedback has been incredible; I never thought I would write anything even moderately successful, and here I am 500 hits and 40-something kudos later, four days into my first work. I can't thank you all enough.


	5. Free at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the revenge party defeated, the road warriors have some time to their thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda hastily thrown together, this was. Trying to get into heads. Feedback is, as always, welcome.

Cheedo the Fragile

Cheedo held her cracked and blistered hands out to the fire. The desert got cold at night; much colder than Immortan Joe’s vault had ever been. She huddled up to the Dag for warmth.

Dag looked down at her. “You’re like a doll. Still pretty but broken up inside.”

Cheedo looked up, snuggled closer. For comfort this time, on the brink of tears. “I’m scared, Dag. There’s no Immortan to run back to anymore. No home. And we’re out here and we have nowhere to go.”

Behind her, Shotshell put her hand on Cheedo’s shoulder. “He was never home, little one. And I think we’ll be just fine.” She smiled down at Cheedo, tugged her and the Dag close.

“You know, I used to be a lot like you. Back before the bombs hit. I was a housewife; my wife was always the decisive one, the breadwinner, the problem-solver, more than I was. Then…” She explodes her hand. “White flash, black rain, and she was gone.

“I was lost. Didn’t know what to do with myself. Until I found my new family, this…whatever you call us. Had a purpose. Gave myself a purpose. Became strong. And you’re well on your way, Cheedo. The Fragile doesn’t fit you anymore.” She pointed at the gun she’d used to kill Rictus, scratched and pitted with wear. “Keep that. I’ll show you how to use it. And take this.” Shotshell unclipped something from her thigh, some little pouches. A holster.

Hands shaking, Cheedo accepted the holster. Clipped it to her thigh, hands slipping once, then not again. She sighed; the weight was comforting. Cheedo leaned back into Shotshell and Dag. She didn’t tremble now.

 

Capable

“The trick is cutting the wheel. Cut the wheel, pull the brake, but then you gotta turn the wheels the other direction to get control back. Otherwise you just skid and you can’t do it.” Nux was motioning with his hands as he talked. She smiled up at him; cars always got him talking, and she loved it when he got so into something.

“The whole thing just sounds counterintuitive to me. Oh, yeah, I’m turning left, so lemme cut the wheel right,” she joked.

“No, no, cut the wheel left _first,_ then right, so your wheels are pointed the same way you wanna go.” He held out his hands parallel, turning them to demonstrate how the wheels moved. “If I can convince Bloodbag to let me borrow his car, I can show you.”

“Good luck with that,” she said. The road warrior, Nux’s Bloodbag, made it very clear that his car was his one true love.

Nux paused. “It’s not hard, getting the basics. Then once you got that, other stuff’s easy too.” He kissed the top of her head. “You did really good today. Real shine.”

She looked up and kissed him on the lips. “Thanks. Learned from the best.” He gaped, in shock; it occurred to Capable that Nux had probably never been kissed before. She kissed him again, longer this time, and when she was done she pressed their foreheads together. Held the back of his head. Like Fury had.

Capable looked over at the road warrior and Fury. Leaned up against his car, the forty-odd days’ worth of guzzoline they’d scavenged tanked in his backseat. She could just make out his shoulders starting to shake, and she realized he was crying. His shadow leaned on Furiosa’s; her arm, around his shoulder. Capable pressed closer to Nux.

 

The Valkyrie

She tossed the last of the captured rifles on the pile. It was far more than they could carry, even if they’d needed to; really, they only needed weapons and sidearms for the Wives. They’d probably end up burying the rest, in case they ever came back this way. No matter how slim those chances were.

“Okay, that makes…six assault rifles—R91s, the American ones—four Kalashnikovs, five .45 automatics, eight ten-millimeter pistols, three .32 caliber revolvers, a .44 Magnum, an M1 Carbine, two combat shotguns, two hunting shotguns, and…one forty-millimeter grenade launcher.” She held up the launcher, an American Thumper, at near arm’s length. “Why they didn’t use this is beyond me.” She tossed it back in the pile.

“Also captured were well over thirty magazines for the R91s, twelve for the AKs, eight for the forty-fives, around fifty for the ten-mils, around forty individual rounds for the .32s, eighteen rounds for the Magnum, six magazines for the M1, seven drum mags for the combat shotguns, twenty-ish shotgun shells, and four grenades for the launcher. Which means,” Val said, looking up from the pile, “that you girls have quite an arsenal to choose from.”

“So it would seem,” Toast said. She grabbed the M1, sighted down.

Val cocked her mouth. “.30 Carbine is hard to come by. Hang on to it, but I wouldn’t use it as my primary.” She picked up an R91. “This one is a bit better. Heavy, prone to jam, but it gets a good grouping and you’ll never hurt for ammo.”

She could see the gears turning in Toast’s head. Considering if this would be acceptable. Feeling it out—the magazine release, the charging handle, the length of the stock and the heft of the barrel. A weapon had to fit its user, and Toast seemed to mesh well with this one.

“Let’s call the girls over. They can pick out their guns,” Val suggested.

A few whistles and shouts later, and not only had the Wives gathered, but the entire family was circled around the gun pile like kids around a Mothermas tree. Shotshell, gleefully cradling a new combat shotgun. Furiosa, clearing the chamber of one of the AKs. Capable, tucking a .32 into her waistband. Nux, grinning over the Magnum before he fumbled it. The Dag, holding two ten-millimeters, arms akimbo, and Cheedo laughing. Keeper, running her hands over the M1 like she’d known how to handle one her whole life. The girls had found their guns.

Valkyrie pulled Furiosa aside. “We can’t carry all of these,” she whispered.

“Bury the ones we don’t take. You know how it goes.”

“Or burn them.” Val’s eyes were hard. “Not like we’re coming back.”

Furiosa loaded the AK and racked the charging handle. She paused.

“Burn them.”

 

Max

No matter what the War Boys had done, this was still his car. The years of memories and the dead he ran from couldn’t be shaken with paint and suspension upgrades. Couldn’t even shake the smell. Oil. Leather. Blood and cordite and a hint of perfume. No chalk dust anywhere in the car.

They were bedding down for the night. Max threw out his bedding—still in the backseat—and laid down next to his car. His home. As long as he had his car, he had all he needed. He leaned his head back against the driver’s door, and for once his demons were silent. Maybe he’d found redemption.

Furiosa trudged over, exhausted. She sat down next to him. Placed her new Kalash on the ground. Laid her head against the rear door. For a long time they were silent. Two road warriors with nothing that needed to be said. Finally she broke the hush.

“This was your car?” she asked him.

Max nodded. “Yes. My car.”

“Means a lot to you.” She ran a finger over the tire tread.

“Been mine for a long time.”

She glanced at him. Curious. “How’d you get it?”

He checked the load on his shotgun. “Was a cop. Before. Planned on leaving. They offered me the car to stay.”

He had more to say. To explain. There was more to that story. A road he didn’t go down often. He wouldn’t if she didn’t ask. But she knew, and her glance said more than a thousand words.

In response, Max rolled up his sleeve. On his arm, a tattoo. Two names in a rose. Crudely done, home job. Jessie and Sprog. His first ghosts.

Furiosa was quiet. Waiting for him to go on.

“Had a wife. And a baby. Wanted to protect them,” he said, softly. “Killed by a road gang. Before the War. Toecutter was his name. Stole the car, hunted him down.” He could start to hear them again. _Where are you, Max?_

She fell silent. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head in absolution. “We’ve all lost.” A new voice in his head now— _we are not things any more. You saved them, Max. Maybe you didn’t save anyone else, but you saved them._ She had never heard his name; how did her ghost know?

Perhaps he had a new name for that tattoo.

He sighed heavily, the breath taking his strength with it. He started to cry silently. Not for Jessie, or their murdered child. He hadn’t cried for them in a long time. For the new ghost that would follow him. For she, the Splendid.

“Max,” he said. “That’s my name. My name is Max.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying, you're crying.


	6. The End of the Great Salt Flats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After forty-five days of riding, desert gives way to sea.

Furiosa

On the twenty-third day, they found a buried shopping mall from before the War, and looted clothing for the girls and ammunition for the guns.

On the twenty-eighth day, they found a beached container ship and shacked up for the night. There was nothing of note aboard the ship. Max was her source of warmth that night.

On the thirty-first day, they found the bleached bones of some pre-War sea animal, a ribcage the size of the War Rig. Nux took a small chunk of bone and carved it at night. On the thirty-seventh day, he presented his bone charm necklace to Capable, who accepted it with happy tears.

On the forty-fifth day, they reached the end of the Plains of Silence.

As they crested a rise, Furiosa skidded to a stop; a thin line of green-blue stretched across the horizon. She was hallucinating. Heat had finally gotten to her, engines overheated and short on coolant, gasping for air through a busted intake. She shouldn’t ride; she asked to ride shotgun in Max’s Interceptor. He obliged willingly.

Once seated, Max reached behind her seat and procured a canteen. “Drink up,” he said. “If the heat’s getting you.” She accepted the bottle, drinking in short sips and leaning her head back. If she couldn’t ride, she couldn’t fight, and if she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t protect them.

As they approached, the line of blue turned into a field. She wasn’t hallucinating, that was real, and as she realized what it was, her engine sucked nitrous oxide instead of air.

She looked over at Max. “Ocean,” he said. “That’s the ocean, isn’t it.”

Furiosa nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“Thought I wasn’t crazy anymore,” Max grunted.

“Get them to stop.”

The family braked and turned engines off to conserve guzzoline. Everyone’s eyes were locked on that ocean; it looked endless.

“So much aqua-cola,” Nux breathed. “It’s just…It’s just there. It’s all there. Just sitting there.” He reached out a hand.

Capable held onto his free arm. “Can’t drink it, I don’t think. Salty.”

Shotshell grunted in assent. “Girl’s right. Can’t drink saltwater. Kill you dead.”

“Endless dunes of blue sand…Water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” the Dag murmured.

She shook the last drops of water from Max’s canteen. “Alright, saddle up,” Furiosa ordered. “We keep moving.” Reclaiming her bike felt good; she was back on her feet, hot engine between her legs and worn grips in her hands. She gave Max a little thumbs up as she revved the motorcycle.

As they approached the shoreline, Furiosa could make something out. A little shack, made from a capsized yacht and driftwood. Two figures left the shack in a hurry and took up positions behind water drum barricades. She stopped the party about a hundred meters from the shack and dismounted.

 

Max

Bad idea. Very bad idea. These people had guns and Furiosa had her hands up. He tensed his shoulders. Put a hand on his shotgun. Shot a significant glance to the Dag; she unslung her hunting rifle. He cased the two survivors.

One was young. Maybe Angharad’s age. Polynesian features and light skin; mixed ancestry. Full figure suggested she ate well enough. Diet high in protein and calories. She wore the remains of a pre-War denim jacket and a pair of army fatigue pants, patched and decorated with spikes and emblems he barely recognized. Hair dyed a sea green, makeup improvised from charcoal ash and engine grease. Her rifle was like her—modern and full of personality—a 5.56mm paratrooper’s rifle, all black composite and heavily modified with attachments and etchings. She held it with the cavalier of youth.

The other was old. Could have been her grandfather. Darker skin and more pronouncedly Maori features than the younger, tattooed in blue; tribal designs. Surprisingly fit for a man his age, maybe seventy-five. Wore the same fatigue pants as the younger, no shirt. Black hair tied in a bun. His rifle was a beautifully polished Lee-Enfield No. 4, wood frame, looked like it had served in the Second World War. Maybe it had. He held it with the certainty of a man who’d used it for years. And he leveled it at Furiosa.

“You mind explaining who you are, and what you’re doing here?” the man said.

“My name is Furiosa of the Vuvalini. We come from a place forty-five days’ drive west of here.”

“Across the Salt Flats? Not likely,” the girl replied. Green dot on Furiosa’s solar plexus.

“We’ve ridden for forty-five days. Had an entire War Rig full of water and guzz to get across.”

The man looked past them. “What are you fleeing? Must be something powerful big, to run for forty-five days.”

She glanced at the Wives. Sisters now. “A warlord. Owned people. Had an entire slave army willing to die for him.”

The Dag spit in the dust. “Good gone, the schlanger.”

Furiosa nodded. “Dead now. We’ve just been driving ever since.”

The old man lowered his rifle. “Okay. Bring them inside.” He snapped his fingers. “Gun down, Haeata. They are our guests.” The girl lowered her rifle slowly, eyes on Furiosa.

At Furiosa’s wave, Max urged his car forward.

 

Haeata

She wasn’t taking her eyes—or her rifle—off the tall one anytime soon. Or the man in leather who looked like he was about to snap. She loved her grandfather, but sometimes old Arapeta held a little too hard to the old customs. Hospitality was dangerous in this world.

Haeata sat up in the watchtower, leg hanging off the platform and rifle in her lap, watching the little tribe park their motorcycles under the tarp. Raggedy bunch, they were. Five of the women looked greener than her hair, still uncomfortable in their bodies and with their rifles. Probably never had to use them. The redhead had a pale boy hanging on her like a kitten. Anemic, looked like. Then the two old women, the man in leather, the tall one, and a girl about her age with a repeater; those were the dangerous ones.

Redhead was looking up at her, kitten boy following her gaze. Haeata cycled the bolt with a smooth clack, checking the load, and coolly glanced over at them. She cocked an eyebrow, and enjoyed the show as redhead tightened her grip on kitten boy’s arm. Haeata smiled.

A catnap later, Arapeta was shouting her name. “Haeata! Come down for dinner!” He was handing out bowls of fish stir fry to the newcomers. Nimbly, she leapt down from her perch, landing on two feet and tossing her rifle over her shoulder.

The little microgroups became apparent as she weaved through the crowd. Redhead and kitten boy, tall one and leather guy, the two addled ones, the fragile one and the older lady obsessed with shotguns, and the desert warrior and the dark-skinned sister. She didn’t know their names. She took her stew and sat next to her grandfather. He was talking to the tall one.

“So…what’s past here? Is this it?” Had the tall one never seen a map?

“Oh, no. Not by any means. There’s plenty of world beyond this shore,” he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a map. He had shown Haeata that map before.

“We’re more or less here.” He pointed to a spot a few days into the old oceans. “And this ocean goes on, but not forever.” His finger moved to the west coast of another continent that Haeata had never visited.

“What’s there?” asked the road warrior in leather.

Arapeta shrugged.

The leathered man leaned back. “Furiosa, if we can make it across…”

“Then what?”

He sighed. “Hm. Maybe we can find…some kind of home.”

Haeata glanced between the two and shot a questioning look to her grandfather. He was just as confused as she was.

“We don’t want…This is your home. Not ours,” Furiosa said.

“We can share it as long as you need to.” Arapeta stood up. “If you’re going to make this journey, you’re going to need one hell of a boat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was written kind of hastily, I know. I'm sorry I haven't posted in like a week; had one hell of a case of writer's block. Lemme know what you think!


	7. One Hell of a Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Arapeta start building the boat; Capable learns to drive.

Valkyrie

Dinner was long done and the coals of the cook-fire banked when she walked out from the garage, unable to sleep. She could see a flashlight on in the watchtower, and crossed camp over to it, lithely scaling the struts supporting the old radio tower. As she pulled herself into the crow’s nest, Haeata scooted over a few feet to make room for her and turned off the flashlight.

Val exhaled. “Nice gun,” she said.

Haeata smiled softly and hefted the rifle. “Never used it on much more than paper, honestly.”

Val shifted her weight forward. “Where’d you get it?”

“Grandpa popped its old owner, some twenty-something white boy who tried to take advantage of me. I grabbed the gun and we ran.”

Val held her hands out, motioning her question: can I hold it?

Haeata unslung the rifle from her shoulder and passed it to Val. She held the weapon delicately—always respect someone else’s piece. Very modern. Black composite, lot of rails and attachments, and a line of tallies etched on the stock and receiver.

“Those for kills?” Val pointed.

“Yeah.” Val counted eleven.

Valkyrie took her own rifle off her back and tossed it to the younger girl. Haeata whistled. “Now that…That is a pretty gun.” She ran her hands lovingly over the varnished wood. “How’d you get this?”

“It was my mother’s, before the War. Lived on a ranch. Taught me to shoot, left it to me when she went.” Val pointed out the grip, branded in her family’s name.

Haeata worked the lever action. “So I gotta ask, what exactly is it you’re all looking for? I mean, it’s not like anyone ever comes out this way. Nearest settlement is a solid two days’ drive north. So you’re not here for the trading or the scenery.” She handed Val her rifle back. “So what are you here for?”

Val re-slung her rifle. “Honestly? I’m really not sure. I’m following Furiosa.”

 

Furiosa

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to ask, for the safety of my family. What exactly are you looking for out here?” The older man, Arapeta, refilled her cup. She hadn’t had booze like this since she’d slugged some of Ace’s rotgut last year. She swirled it around her tongue, enjoying the strange flavor. Salty, almost.

“Same thing as when we started this trip forty-six days ago. Home.” She paused. “Now there’s just more of us.”

“You know,” Max interjected, “you could probably run an engine on this.” He grimaced and sipped at the seaweed whiskey.

“Home.” Arapeta leaned back and poured himself more whiskey. “Funny thing, that. Some people never find it, even when they settle down. Some people, home is just a car on the fury road, a car they’ve had too long. Some people, some very lucky people, find it in a little shack by the sea. And others…They’re born in that shack by the sea and never stop looking for their home.”

“And some,” Furiosa whispered, “were taken from their homes. Stolen. Spent most of their lives away. And when they come back, they don’t even know, because it’s been poisoned. The earth was salted, and now home is gone.”

Arapeta stood up and walked out of the shelter, motioning for Furiosa to follow. The night sky stretched out above them, an eternal canopy of dark ink and little candle flames; the waves crashed softly on the beach a few dozen feet from where they stood. “This,” he said, “is my home. This shack by the sea is where I belong. Working with my hands. Building a boat so that someone else can find their home. Somewhere in that direction”—he pointed towards the eastern horizon—“is your home. It’s yours and it’s his and theirs and all of yours. It’s out there and it’s waiting for you to find it. And when you do, you’ll finally be able to just sit down and let those bikes of yours rust.”

Furiosa had to think about that. That wasn’t really her style. She didn’t let the bike rust, she kept it maintained for when she’d have to flee again, when she’d need to run out on the open road and fight and survive. She had never not been moving; she’d always had one hand on the gearshift and the other on the wheel, ready to drive when she needed to.

She felt Max standing beside her, almost leaning on her for support. Knew he felt the same way. Short breath, then his gravelly voice. “I think that would be nice.”

 

Max

He wasn’t sure that he could do it, but it would be nice. He’d never stayed in one place. Not since the bombs. Move, always move, you want to live, move. Or his ghosts caught up to him.

 _Maybe that’s not such a bad thing._ Her voice. Her whisper. Kind. Forgiving like nobody in this wasteland could be. Maybe that’s why she was going to be his next tattoo instead of standing here with Furiosa at the edge of the world.

He thought he recognized Arapeta’s clothing, from before the War. As he fell asleep in his car, curled up on Furiosa, he resolved to ask him the next morning.

Max woke to harsh sounds. Welding. Rivets being driven. He left the garage, saw Arapeta. He was already at work on the boat. Max circled the construction site; he could already see how it was going to look. A catamaran, triple-hulled, bent and burned and forced into life from the scraps of the old world. Beautiful. He didn’t need to be told what to do. He took up an arc welder and got to work.

 _Still looking for home._ Her voice again, and some of the others.

He grunted to himself. _Hmm._

He carved scraps into useable pieces for Arapeta for three hours before he found his voice. “So…those clothes. Where’d you get them?”

Arapeta leaned back. Sipped his canteen. “I was a Marine. Before…all of this.” He waved at the world. “4th Royal Marines, NZ/RAR ANZAC.” Arapeta looked him over. “You?”

“I was a cop,” Max replied. “Main Force.”

“See any action?” Arapeta asked.

Max nodded. “You?”

In response, Arapeta pulled up his shirt, revealing three puckered scars on his lower abdomen. “Took those in Taiwan. Chinese Assault Rifle, big .308 rounds. Went right through me.” He sighed; Max could hear the labor in his breathing now.

“I was on my way back when the bombs hit. Last flight out of Taipei; there was this Chinese tank crashing the perimeter gate around the airstrip as we lifted off. I nodded off once we got to altitude. Propped up by refugees. Next thing I remember was this bright flash behind my eyelids, and turbulence like I’d never felt before. We lost maybe five, ten thousand feet then.

“I run up to the cabin, because I’m maybe one of a dozen actual military types on this plane filled past capacity, and I ask the pilots what the hell happened. They tell me they don’t know, radio and electronics just went down and they only had the analog backups working, but there was this flash at their peripheral vision—that was the detonation, one of the first ones—and when I looked back the mushroom cloud was already forming.

“We lived out of that cargo plane the first few months. Landed it near Brisbane and all two hundred of us made our home in the remains. Then the scavenging got harder and harder, and raider gangs were killing anyone who didn’t starve, and I figured it was time to move on. Found my wife, and we rigged up a Chryslus Corvega and drove south. Set up shop here after a few years of wandering, once the oceans receded. Raised a family.”

“So, the girl. Haeata. She’s your…?” Max interjected.

“Granddaughter. Our daughter got knocked up by some caravan trader before the cancers got her mother; she died in childbirth. Now it’s just me and Haeata. I try so hard to protect her, but…”

Max nodded. Sometimes there was only so much to do to protect someone from themselves. “She ever try to have some grand adventure?”

“Constantly. Two years ago she signed on as a caravan guard; got as far as Bartertown before she wound up with too many shrapnel wounds and came home. Six months ago, she tries taking down this shark while she’s out fishing; loses a chunk of her leg and a full magazine from that rifle of hers.” Arapeta shrugged. “She’s at that age.”

He chuckled. Sprog might have been that way once. _Why didn’t you save us, Max?_ He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“That wasn’t yours, was it?” Max nodded at Arapeta’s rifle.

“Matter of fact it was.” To Max’s raised eyebrow, “It was close to the end of the war. Running out of resources and running out of money in the budget. The R91s got too expensive to order; the Enfields were right in the Civil Defense armories. Did me well enough.” He leaned down to bring up another piece of repurposed scrap.

They stopped at midday, avoiding the hottest part of the day out of necessity. Max took the time to teach the Dag to shoot.

And—gods help him—to loan Nux his car.

 

Nux

His face hurt from grinning too much. He wrung his hands around the steering wheel, the polished chrome gearshift, the weather-beaten dashboard. A real-deal V8 Interceptor. Last one, Bloodbag had said. And Capable was riding shotgun, hair like fire down her shoulders.

“Let’s see what you can do…” He turned the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life, guzzoline flowing into the injection manifold, exhaust pipes heating, cylinders thirsty for air intake. This wasn’t the growl of his motorbike, this was a _roar._ A wild animal. High-octane kamicrazy. Old-world power, rumbling forward into this brave new world by his hand. He was the man who grabbed the sun.

He floored the accelerator.

The tires spun until they caught, wrenching the car forward. He fell back into the driver’s seat, rolling his shoulders back in ecstasy. He tightened his grip on the wheel; looking over at Capable, the smile on her face growing with the RPM. She said two words.

“Do it.”

Nux grabbed the handbrake, yanked it up as he cut the wheel left. The car slicked over the road, smooth as Capable’s skin. They made a full one-eighty as her lips parted, a gasp escaping her lungs to match Nux’s. Drop the brake; throw the car in reverse; floor it.

“That’s how you handbrake turn,” he said, trembling in glee. He finished the three-sixty with another skid, braking, pulling the car down to idle.

“Alright, let’s switch,” he said.

 

Capable

She could smell him as she slid into his lap in the driver’s seat, flaking paint and grease and sweat soaking into the leather. She could feel the heat of this moment as she wrapped her hands around the wheel—power she didn’t know how to control—and she could feel Nux’s cool hand on her waist. She focused the heat into Nux, draining herself into calm.

Capable turned her head to him. His eyes—so big and so blue and so innocent and so full of a half-life he wanted to give to her—were locked on hers, inviting her to do what he did.

“Okay, so we’re gonna start simple…” He placed his hands on hers, guided her to the ignition. The car roared to life—this was definitely too much to handle, she had no idea what she was doing, why was she here what was she thinking—

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. “There you go. Nice and easy, Cape. Now ease onto the accelerator…”

The car lurched forward. “Easy, easy! Take it slow. She’s real sensitive, gotta take her easy.”

_A skull face, a heavy rebreather, the smell of the Vault, it was too much, it was too—_

Capable felt Nux’s foot next to hers, boots knocking against each other. He depressed the gas pedal, slowly, softly, the purr of the engine reaching into her bones and holding her in place, pressing her to him. She breathed, short and shallow, deepening as the purr became steady.

“You feel me?” Nux asked her. She nodded quickly.

“Yeah,” in a hurried whisper.

“Hey, hey, relax, Cape. It’s okay. Just us here. I got you.” He nuzzled her neck. “Now shift up.” He took her hand and guided it over to the gearshift, showing her how to work the shift and clutch, to feel when the car was ready for the next gear.

Now they were soaring across the sand, three hundred horsepower giving a steady 3,500 RPM, the dial pushing a hundred kilometers an hour. She held the wheel; his hands were on her hips, his left leg intertwined with hers. She held this machine.

“Do it,” he breathed into her ear.

Capable cut the wheel, leaned her weight into the handbrake, threw the decades-old Interceptor into reverse, following the motion of Nux’s hands. All she could feel were his lips pressed to hers as they twirled sideways across the asphalt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this was originally gonna be focused on the boat, and then I got pulled into more Nuxable. We'll get back to the main plot soon, I promise. But for now... *dumps handful of Nuxable shipping trash*


End file.
